Every Offense Is Not A Hate At

Do Not Speak Like A Death's-head, Do Not Bid Me Remember Mine End.

There Lives Within The Very Flame Of Love A Kind Of Wick Or Snuff That Will Abate It.

When The Age Is In, The Wit Is Out

Many Strokes, Though With A Little Axe, Hew Down And Fell The Hardest-timber'd Oak.

O, What A Goodly Outside Falsehood Hath!